


Plant Your Hope

by Glittering_Darmallon



Series: The Sky Above Us Shoots To Kill [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dyslexic Inquisitor, M/M, Pre-Slash, meet-cute (well meet-awkward cutely?), referenced past relationship, warrior inquisitor - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 14:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13789335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Glittering_Darmallon/pseuds/Glittering_Darmallon
Summary: Rowan gets a horse and meets the most beautiful man he's ever seen. This Inquisition gig is looking better and better.





	Plant Your Hope

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, yeah. I know. The Fereldan Forder Master Dennet gives the Inquisitor is brown. Just pretend for the sake of this exercise that it was a black one. Okay? 
> 
> Also there's a little 'in-game dialogue' in scene two. 
> 
> If you're interested [this](https://78.media.tumblr.com/1c2cf6eb27d82650c1e7003eeb1d2826/tumblr_inline_p4oc8vPYlt1vypc2t_540.png) is what Rowan looks like.
> 
> Obligatory disclaimer: Yeah, I don't own Dragon Age. That belongs to Bioware and EA Sports.

“Whoa, whoa there.” Rowan grabbed the reins, giving them a little shake and clicking his tongue. “Easy, girl. You and me are going to go on lots of journeys, have many adventures. Just you wait.” All his life, he’d wanted an all-black horse just like this one, wanted to watch the way the sun glinted off its hair. There was something both otherworldly and a bit exhilarating about them, and he could never put his finger on it. He ran his hand down the side of the filly’s neck. “You’re a beautiful lady. I bet in the dark you look just like an...echo. Echo? How does that sound?”

Once he’d mounted Echo, he found that he couldn’t resist the racing course Dennet’s daughter dangled in front of him. Though it had only been a few weeks, it had felt like ages since he’d ridden. Came with the territory he supposed. Having spent the better part of his life on a horse--Hell, he’d spent almost half his life riding one into various battles--being without one for so long felt odd. ' _Yo_ _ur mount is an extension of yourself,’_ the motto of his company’s horsemaster; it hung in the stables at their home base. He took the words to heart immediately. For all the other things Rowan couldn’t do right, riding had never been one of them.  Always had a way with horses, that’s what Oliver had told him often.

 _I miss you, Ollie. I could really use your advice about this whole Herald shit. You should have been the one to get this mark. You’d have known right away what needed to be done, and you would have done it. You always_ **_did_ ** _try to do the right thing._

This war, Rowan sighed, had taken too many good people. All wars did. He blinked back the still too raw emotion that clung to the inside of his chest like cobwebs, aching, pulling at his ribs, his lungs, his spine, clogging each breath with a sticky sort of grief he couldn’t swallow down. He hated that kind.

The wind rushed through his hair as he steered Echo through the gates around the course. Oh Maker, this was like second nature to him. He’d thought, however foolishly, that as he rose up in the Hussars, that his parents might show a sense of pride in his accomplishments. But if they did, it never came through in their letters. Even after being awarded the Order of Elite Combat Riding, his proudest accomplishment to date, it seemed to be little more than an ‘Oh, that’s nice, son. Did you hear your brother secured exclusive trading rights with Tantervale?’. Because that’s all he ever was to his family, an afterthought, that unplanned and ill-advised seventh child. The one destined for the life of a Chantry brother, bound to spend his days archiving and transcribing. _Him_ , the one that, despite countless tutors, never could figure out how to read better than a child, whose penmanship was atrocious, who couldn’t spell to save his life. Yes, he’d have been _perfect_ for that life of work.

Ha! The very thought just went to show how little his parents, especially his mother, understood him. Running away from the Chantry, mere minutes before he was due to meet with the Grand Cleric, was the best decision he’d ever made.

“I have to say, I didn’t think you had it in you. That course is pretty challenging,” Seanna grinned at him.

He gave her his winningiest smile before dismounting. “Well, she is a great horse. A fine fit.”

Luckily, their nearest camp was not too far, and he begrudgingly handed off Echo’s reins to one of the soldiers.

“You know, I didn’t expect you to beat her time.”

“Really, Varric? What did you _think_ I did for the Hussars? They’re cavalry.” He shook his head with a chuckle. Then, he turned to Cassandra, “Well, that was wonderful. I feel so light and cheerful now. Seems like a fine time to go meet some mages. Should be fun.”

“I think you and I have differing opinions on what constitutes fun, Herald.”

“I’m inclined to agree with her, Pussycat.”

Bull’s snort of laughter filled the camp. “ _That’s_ what you decided on for a nickname? Not Freckles or Ginger or something of the like?”

“Why, Tiny, I’m surprised you didn’t make the connection! Look at him, right now. Unarmed, giddy like a schoolboy. You see him _outside_ of battle and he looks harmless.” When Varric caught sight of Rowan’s raised eyebrow, he backtracked. “Well, mostly, okay...not a perfect fit. Obviously, he’s more than formidable. But he cracks jokes, rather soft spoken for someone who fights with as much rage as he does. Just like a housecat. Harmless until you piss it off and then it becomes a furry demon-spawn.”

Rowan shrugged. “What can I say? Sergeant Verkel recognized berserker potential the moment he laid eyes on me when I enlisted.”

Varric burst out laughing. “Your Sarge was a dwarf? Oh that’s brilliant. You see? These are the little details that make the story interesting.”

“Oh Verkel? Yeah. He was a Fifth Blight Veteran, one of the Legion of the Dead that fought in Denerim. Got injured and separated from his company. By the time he was well enough to travel, he was having a hard time finding transport back to Orzammar.” Rowan scratched his chin. “Though he never did say how he ended up in the Free Marches. Great guy. He was like my second father. He certainly understood me better than my _actual_ father that’s for sure.”

He gave Varric a friendly clap on the back and began the trek to Redcliffe Village.

 

***

  


Rowan watched as a whirling dervish of tawny skin and flames spun his staff in the middle of the fray like a soldier in the midst of the melee in the Grand Tourney. A mage... in the Grand Tourney! He’d pay good money to see that, especially if it was _this_ particular mage. Like watching a dance, an elegant and fluid dance, the man shot flames at demons right and left. When the beasts drew too close for spells, he resorted to simply whacking them over the head with his staff. Then, as if by fate, he turned towards them where he found Rowan frozen in place staring at him.

“Good! You’re finally here. Help me close this will you?”

Rowan’s feet were rooted in place, and he was pretty sure his mouth was hanging open as well. The man was, for lack of a better word, beautiful. Look, poetry was not his strong suit. He was a soldier not a writer, but there was something in the way this mysterious man carried himself that had Rowan longing to create sonnets in his honor.

Sweet Maker, he was done for. He felt one of the party give him a shove, a gentle reminder that they were in a war-zone, and he needed to get moving. Oh yes, another blasted fade rift. How _could_ he forget?

“Something distracting you, Pussycat? Well, let me draw your attention to the rage demon coming your way as a motivation to _get moving!_ ” This time Varric gave him a less than gentle shove which broke Rowan from his daze.

He never really thought much in the heat of battle, not one for the controlled and calculated tactics of a Champion or the restrained orderly movements of a Templar. No, he hit hard with a fury that more than one person on more than one occasion stated was in direct contrast to his usual demeanor. One would think all that rage stemmed from a rough upbringing. He’d grown up amidst nobility; hardship wasn’t a thing he experienced...until recently. Perhaps, it was merely his way of releasing years of pent up emotions and frustrations all while bashing his shield into the enemy. Yes, that must have been it.

Finally, when the last demon fell and he’d closed the rift, that melodious voice, like a smooth red wine, echoed in the empty chantry hall. “Fascinating. How does that work exactly?” With a chuckle at Rowan’s lack of response, he continued, “You don’t even know do you? You just wiggle your fingers and boom! Rift closes.”

With a shrug and a cheeky grin, Rowan said, “Well, I tried headbutting them, but it didn’t work. Hey Bull,” he called out over his shoulder, “you think if I simply hit the rifts harder they’d close out of fear?”

“Worth a shot, Boss.”

“Anyway, I’m grateful for your help, but who are you?” Rowan wiped his face off on the back of his sleeve. Why did demon...remnants have to be so sticky? For once, he was actually glad for his inability to grow facial hair. He shuddered when he thought of how much it would hurt to have that shit stuck in his beard.

“I’m getting ahead of myself again, I see. Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?”

“Watch yourself. The pretty ones are always the worst.”

Rowan couldn’t tear his gaze away from the man’s (er well Dorian’s) lips as he spoke. Not to mention those eyes! Were they gold or green or…

“Still with us, Boss?”

“Pretty...yeah very pretty.” He shook himself out of his thoughts. “I’m sorry what were you saying?”

“This is great,” Varric chuckled, “it’s like a story that is practically writing itself.”

Cassandra groaned. “Time magic, Herald. He’s talking about time magic.”

As Dorian continued, Rowan ran a hand through his hair, scratching at his scalp, before he remembered exactly where that hand had been moments before. “Blech!” This was shaping up to be a disaster. “And now, I have demon entrails in my hair. Great job, Rowan, Fine first impression if you ask me,” he grumbled under his breath.

“If the Venatori are behind those rifts or the breach in the sky, then they’re even worse than I thought.” Wait...when had Felix arrived?

And then in a moment of utter foolishness, Rowan spoke the first thing that came to mind. “All this for me? And here I didn’t get Alexius anything.”

 _What are you doing, you ass?_ He scolded himself. _You are trying to recruit help to close the breach not flirt._ Easy for his inner monologue to say, but he just couldn’t help staring at him. Handsome was an understatement as large as the hole in the sky.

“Send him a fruit basket. Everyone loves those,” Dorian said with a smirk. “Now that you know you’re his target, and you expect the trap, you can take the necessary precautions to turn the situation to your advantage.”

“Or I could just hit him, really, really hard.” Behind him, he heard one of Cassandra’s disgusted grunts she usually reserved for Varric alone. “What? Not an option?”

“I can’t stay in Redcliffe. Alexius doesn’t know I’m here, and I'd like him to remain oblivious. But whenever you’re ready to deal with him, I want to be there. I’ll be in touch.”

“And I’ll wait with bated breath.” After realizing what he’d said, he groaned and facepalmed before beating a hasty retreat out of the chantry. Once the heavy, front doors had closed behind him, he gave a quick shout in frustration, throwing his hands up in the air. “Maker’s balls! That was bad. That’s it; I’ve clearly died, and this is my punishment. My headstone surely reads: Here lies Rowan Trevelyan, born: 13 Bloomingtide 9:15, died: 23 Kingsway 9:41, Abysmal at first impressions.”

“Died with demon goop in his hair,” Varric added.

“Oh yes, thank you. How could we forget that addendum to my obituary?”

Varric shrugged. “I like to give my heroes flaws. Adds to their humanity.”

“Don’t forget to mention that my reading skills leave much to be desired and that I can’t grow a beard to save my life. I know my brothers haven’t forgotten. They like to bring it up often.”

“Beards are overrated,” he scoffed, “and coming from a dwarf, trust me, that’s saying something.”

Rowan walked over to the nearby fountain where he proceeded to dunk his head in his haste to get the foul smelling innards out of his hair. “Remind me to never again go on one of these outings without a helm.”

“Hey, Pussycat, never-” Varric started.

“Don’t.”

“I hate to break up the comedic relief, but anyone else just really want to forego gaining a mage alliance and hightail it to Therinfall Redoubt? I mean, sure, I hate demons as much as the next guy, more probably, but altering time? What kind of shit is that?”

Rowan shook a droplet of water off his nose and clapped Bull on the back. “I’d say nugshit, but I think it might be bigger than that.”

"I think you might be right, Pussycat."  
  


**Author's Note:**

> If you do the math you'll notice that Rowan was quite young when he joined the Hussars. This will be explained more in later installments, but yes, he was a teen soldier. It happens.
> 
>  
> 
> Come visit me on [tumblr.](https://glittering-darmallon.tumblr.com/)


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